


What Glue Has Bound Together, Let No Angel Tear Asunder

by ImprobableDreams900



Series: Eden!verse [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's bookshop, Crack, Fluff, Gen, POV books, Tiny bit of Angst, but I assure you it is totally pants, it's not quite as rubbish as it sounds, shipping books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8525341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: The Nice and Accurate Adventures of Two Books, One Diabolical and One Divine





	

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for everything. I blame doctortreklock for telling me it was a good idea to post this.
> 
> Set concurrently with chapters 27/28-ish of "A Memory of Eden", in which Crowley resolved to post the hellish and heavenly books they had lying around to Aziraphale's Soho bookshop. You may recall these particular books from earlier in that fic, where they make cameos as Crowley tries to figure out a way to save Aziraphale. 
> 
> If you want to understand the overarching plot, it is recommended that you read "A Memory of Eden" and "Crime & Punishment" before you read this. If you just want to read about sentient books being adorable, full steam ahead. :)

Something stank.

_The Inner Workings of Angelicy_ , which was acquainted with only the finer smells available in Heaven, ruffled its pages in a decidedly annoyed fashion.

The angelic book was fairly certain the smell was emanating from the thick, blood-encrusted tome lying on top of it, which was a less than ideal place for such a foul-smelling thing to be. 

_Inner Workings_ and some half dozen other books of divine or diabolical authorship had been packed into this dark, cold crate for something approaching a week. When the sad, snake-eyed angel (in and of itself a tad baffling, since _Inner Workings_ was fairly certain he had been a demon earlier) had packed them into the sturdy wooden crate, the book had been horrified to see the dark shape of the demonic volume placed right on top of it— _Inner Workings!_ A book written by angels about angels for angels, _expressly;_ to be placed so close to a book so fiendish in nature that it was bound in _human skin_ , and exuded a thoroughly disgusting thick sulfurous smell—it wasn’t to be thought of. It was insulting. _Demeaning._

When the crate had been picked up by the postman and placed in the back of a vehicle, the diabolical book had started making small, unhappy scratching noises. It appeared to get quite nauseous from the swaying movement, and soon the cramped crate was full of the choking smell of sulfur and the muffled wails of suffering creatures.

Despite the fact that _Inner Workings_ wanted nothing more than to slap the poorly mannered book with its cover, it was, after all, a book of heavenly origin, and thus possessed a (theoretically) infinite supply of divine patience.

For the first half of the trip, _Inner Workings_ hummed softly and exuded a pleasant smell not unlike lavender. This seemed to calm the distraught, diabolical tome lying atop it, though some of the other books in the crate ruffled their pages unhappily and one started whistling an annoying tune.

_Inner Workings_ could feel the crusted blood flaking off the thick leather cover of the diabolical book atop it, could feel it being crushed into the elegant satin binding of the heavenly book. This was not only extremely disgusting but also very rude; _Inner Workings_ pressed itself closed tighter and tried to remember the good old days back in Heaven’s library.

Luckily, during the second half of the trip the hellish book calmed down some and appeared to fall asleep, if the faint sound of bones being scraped with a knife was any indication. 

Some time later, one of the books pressed vertically beside _Inner Workings’_ spine started shifting in a decidedly aggressive fashion. The book had been silent the entire trip thus far, and _Inner Workings_ decided it must have just woken up. 

The book, which was shedding a strong demonic aura, started hissing and growling threateningly.

_Inner Workings_ , ever polite, ignored it. Some books just had their pages folded like that.

The unpleasant book started shaking a little, its cover banging into _Inner Workings_ ’ delicately-calligraphied spine more roughly than could be ignored.

_Inner Workings_ oozed a smell not unlike sour apples and made a noise like an improperly tuned harp being plucked.

The book only increased its hostile grumbling. Above the heavenly volume, the blood-encrusted demonic tome _Inner Workings_ had silently christened “Stinky” shifted unexpectedly.

For a moment _Inner Workings_ felt a tremor of fear, surrounded as it was by two demonic books. Other Heaven-made volumes were nearby, but they were sleeping, and waking them up now would be an act of cowardice. So the heavenly tome plucked up its courage, strummed a couple of proud, defensive notes on its illustration of a harp on page 182, and drew its heavenly power around it like a cloak.

The book pressed against _Inner Workings_ ’ spine growled again, this time an octave lower. The sound of clinking chains echoed ominously through the crate as it bumped its cover hard against the angelic book’s spine.

_Inner Workings_ bristled with anger and gathered itself to go on the defensive, determined to do whatever was required to survive while surrounded by books wrought in Hell.

Above its satin cover, Stinky let out a menacing growl. _Inner Workings_ pushed down the fear creeping through its binding, determined to show no weakness.

Then the other hellish book snarled in return, and _Inner Workings_ realised abruptly that Stinky’s growl hadn’t been aimed at the heavenly book beneath it at all.

Stinky shifted again and hissed. Since it was on top of the stack, pressed up near the top panel of the crate, it was able to open its cover further, and the hiss increased in volume. _Inner Workings_ listened as Stinky opened its pages as far as it could in the cramped space, flipping through them and transitioning from a hiss to a blood-curdling scream.

The demonic book pressed against _Inner Workings_ ’ spine growled unhappily, but the noise was quieter now, and it soon subsided. Stinky closed its cover with a distinctly satisfied snap, and there was silence in the crate again. 

_Inner Workings_ lay in shock, unsure what exactly had just transpired. Stinky didn’t seem to be interested in claiming the heavenly book as its own prize, instead only quieting down and seemingly falling asleep again. _Inner Workings_ seeped a faint smell of dusted starlight, intended as a thanks for the diabolical book lying on top of it. There was a faint smell of burning paper in return.

Some time later the crate lurched, and all the books slid to one side and knocked into each other. The heavenly books hummed apologies, and the hellish ones hissed annoyance.

There was the sound of voices from outside of the crate, and all the books hushed as one, straining to hear what was being said. _Inner Workings_ thought it felt a faint angelic presence and perked up in excitement, happy to be reunited with its kin. Recently, though,  _Inner Workings_ had grown rather accustomed to the touch of the kind, light-fingered human with the soft wool lap who had paged through it on occasion. Most books enjoyed being paged through immensely, and being read from cover to cover with such care and interest was an absolute wonder. Given the nature of the angelic presence, though, _Inner Workings_ quietly hoped their rescuer would be his friend, the one with the serpentine eyes and respectful fingers, who had brought _Inner Workings_ from its obscurity in the back of a retired priest’s closet to sit with its brethren in a place of honour on a proper shelf.

The crate jostled and there was another exchange of muffled words, and then the crate lost altitude and came to a firm stop.

The books all shifted back into more comfortable positions, readjusting pages as they were able, listening to try to determine who had received them. If nothing else, perhaps they would at least be pulled from this dreadful crate and could then separate from each other’s unpleasantness. 

There was a long silence and then the sound of light tapping on the top of the crate. Stinky hissed.

There was another moment of silence and then a sharp screaming noise as the lid of the crate was forced up with a crowbar, nails protesting the movement. A shaft of bright light filled the crate, and a moment later the lid was removed entirely to reveal their saviour.

It was an angel, but not any _Inner Workings_ could recognise from its admittedly poor line of sight. This angel had long red hair, and a decidedly suspicious frown on her face.

Her eyes narrowed when she recognised the top book, Stinky, as diabolical in nature. 

“Books written by demons?” she muttered under her breath. “Eighteen years, not so much as a postcard, but now they get a stack of old books?”

Elegantly manicured hands reached into the crate and a moment later Stinky was lifted off of _Inner Workings_ , who breathed easily for the first time in a week, relishing the moment it would be picked up and perhaps stroked by angelic fingers. Then at least the flakes of dried blood from Stinky might fall off its lovely satin cover.

“And not even with a proper return address—they’re going to keep me trapped here forever, aren't they? Bet Michael’s having a good laugh over it. Just me and this…this…damnable book of lies.” The angel’s voice turned bitter, and _Inner Workings_ was abruptly torn away from its pleasant musings as Stinky growled intimidatingly. “You disagree?” she said sharply to the book.

For a moment Stinky seemed taken aback, and then it snarled viciously and ruffled its pages, trying to appear larger.

The angel’s voice took on a deliberate, calculated tone. “But only two people might be posting demonic books to this address…and if you really are from them, and not one of Michael’s people having a good laugh…you know where they’re hiding.”

Stinky growled something, but it sounded a little uncertain.

“Your previous owners,” she clarified, stroking a finger down Stinky’s spine with what looked like unexpected gentleness. “The Fallen. How about you tell me where they are? That would be ever so helpful.”

Stinky quieted abruptly, stilling in the angel’s hands.

Though _Inner Workings_ didn’t know it at the time, the book it had christened Stinky had spent the last three millennia propping up the short leg of a table in Hell (all of Hell’s tables came with the wobble ready-made), and, after falling briefly through the hands of several lesser demons, was opened for the first time in millennia by the demon with the eyes of a serpent. Though Stinky would never admit to having enjoyed the experience one bit, books were made for nothing if not to be read, and the snake-eyed demon had done so repeatedly, and with enviable thoroughness.

None of the books that had been packed into the crate knew why they had been separated from their mortal-penned fellows and sent away, but they had to have faith they had not yet been abandoned. Stinky didn’t know for certain if the sad, snake-eyed demon (angel?) would return for it and the others, but it was certain it’d rather wait and find out than go back to propping up a table, this time in a Heavenly lockup.

So Stinky cracked open its cover and let loose a vicious snarl, because if spending three millennia in Hell teaches a book anything, it’s loyalty to the person who finally gets it out of there.

“So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?” the angel asked, but her voice had taken on a cold, hard note and her fingernails were digging into Stinky’s spine. “Luckily I have all the time in the world.”

Stinky snarled again, but _Inner Workings_ , taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, thought it detected a hint of fear.

Before the heavenly book could so much as properly process the angel’s words, she had yanked Stinky roughly open and torn out a page at random with her bare hand.

The diabolical book screamed, the sound loud and terrible, but the angel only dug her hand in again, ripping out another page with a noise that made all the books in the crate flinch and hug their bindings closer together.

Stinky screamed again, and the sound was abruptly cut off a moment later as the angel located the page with the offending illustration and tore it out violently, casting the page to the floor.

“Tell me where they are,” she demanded, but Stinky wasn’t listening anymore.

_Inner Workings_ wasn’t quite sure what was coming over it, but angelic fury was mounting in its pages, running along its spine and glowing from its satin cover. Before it could think better of its actions, it had flung its cover open and managed, quite miraculously, to flip itself into a vertical position, standing unsteadily on the cover of the book beneath it, which made an encouraging noise like an owl hooting. 

The angel hadn’t noticed yet, and was shaking Stinky and flexing her fingers in preparation to tear out another page; meanwhile, Stinky was doing its best to live up to its name by filling the air with the noxious smell of sulfur.

_Inner Workings_ fixed Stinky in its sights, remembering how it had defended the heavenly volume from that other, meaner hellish book, and how it it had been irritable only when suffering from motion sickness. Something in the heavenly book stirred, and it knew that Stinky had done no wrong.

And then _Inner Workings_ gathered to itself every ounce of heavenly power stored within its elegant white pages, and leapt at the angel.

The divine book flung its pages wide, cover spread open as it let loose the sound most like a war cry it had available in its hand-penned illustrations: a shrieking, whooshing noise like air rushing through the feathers of a diving falcon; or a diving angel, to be more accurate. 

The angel’s head snapped around as _Inner Workings_ collided with her arm and snapped itself shut, clinging on as it wound its pages tight around her forearm.

Stinky made a noise like a person being strangled, and a moment later dropped towards the floor as the angel’s hand moved instead to the heavenly book curled around her forearm.

“What the—”

_Inner Workings_ played its most sinister Bach concerto and flapped its covers at her like a bird, slapping her hand away.

The angel moved to rip the book forcibly from its grip, but before she could complete the motion she yelped in pain and glanced down. Beneath them, _Inner Workings_ could just make out a slightly smoking Stinky biting her shin, leaving bright red marks where he’d made contact.

From the crate came a sudden cacophony of noise as the other books decided this was as good a time as any to make clear where they stood. They pulled themselves from the crate and toppled in the direction of the angel, dragging themselves menacingly along the floor and growling or humming angrily. Regardless of divine or diabolical origin, a book would never stand for another book being destroyed right in front of it. It just wasn’t _done._

One of the demonic books started belching what looked like hellfire and the angel’s heavenly aura started growing rapidly as she summoned her power to her. It was clearly vastly superior to what little _Inner Workings_ or any of the other volumes had tucked away in their pages, but that didn’t mean they had to give up without a fight.

_Inner Workings_ made a noise like a sword swinging through the air and constricted itself more tightly around the angel’s forearm, letting her feel the taste of the illustration of the Michaelsword on page 51. 

The angel shrieked and wrenched her fingers between the pages of _Inner Workings_ and her skin, tearing the book from her arm. For a moment the heavenly book hovered in the air, feeling very at sea, and then she let go.

As _Inner Workings_ fell towards the floor so very far below, it wondered if it had made some sort of grave error. Helping a demonic book, fighting an angel—this was not the sort of thing a heavenly tome _did_. Books had been rebound or even destroyed for less.

Then it decided that it didn’t care, and prepared to hit the floor, no matter the consequences.

Instead of the hard slap of wood, there was a slightly springier landing, and _Inner Workings_ tumbled onto the floor a foot away from Stinky, who had leapt a few inches into the air with torn pages spread to break the heavenly book’s fall.

_Inner Workings_ could only stare dazedly at the bedraggled, diabolical volume as the angel, seeing a horde of angry books advancing on her, raised her hands in defeat.

“I am so done with this!” she shouted, to no one present. “I’m just done! I’m getting out of here, I’m taking up fishing—someone else can watch the stupid bookshop, no one’s coming back, I freaking _told_ Michael that, the holy twit—”

The angel stormed towards the door, yanked it open angrily, and was gone, the door swinging shut and locking itself conscientiously behind her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be followed.

For a moment the only sound was that of the books grumbling softly to themselves as they let their intrinsic power die down.

Then they started off in different directions, exploring this new realm they’d found themselves in. A quick glance around revealed it to be a library of some kind, whole bookshelves filled with their Earthly brethren. For a second _Inner Workings_ was absolutely delighted—this was even better than the tiny cottage! This place filled with books of every description—it already felt like home.

Then Stinky let out a pained whimper and _Inner Workings_ turned to see the hellish volume smoking slightly, covers tightly closed, looking rather miserable though no longer stinking of sulfur.

The heavenly book, rather at a loss, hummed a reassuring note. Then, an idea occurring to it, it slid itself across the floor to where one of Stinky’s ripped-out pages was lying forlornly. It raised its front cover enough to snap the corner of the stray page in its grip, and then made its way slowly back over to where Stinky was lying.

As _Inner Workings_ approached, the hellish book seemed to perk up a little. It was lying right-side-up now, and the heavenly volume realised abruptly that it could read its title.

_An Historical Narrative_ , the book proclaimed in gleaming, dark gold lettering. In smaller font, underneath it, was nestled, _of Our Lord Lucifer’s Fall._

_Inner Workings_ considered that it really shouldn’t have been surprised that the Adversary’s name was in the title, but that was easily enough overlooked. It was rather small font, after all. 

The heavenly book shuffled closer in a decidedly friendly manner and rustled _An Historical Narrative_ ’s missing page at it temptingly. 

After a long moment the hellish book let out a hissing sigh and rolled over, opening its cover and spreading its pages. Each sheet was thick, made out of parchment or perhaps human skin, with cramped dark red lettering that the divine book recognised as blood. Despite this, when _An Historical Narrative_ came to a stop at a spread where only a stub of a page remained, the heavenly book carefully maneuvered the page into place, taking care to align the broken edge and corners.

_Inner Workings_ repeated the process for the other torn out pages, _An Historical Narrative_ making scratchy sounds of appreciation as its pages were returned to their proper places.

Then they just lay there on the floor for a moment, exhausted by their joint efforts. Many of the other books had slunk off, and the demonic ones were visible huddling in the shadows under a nearby bookshelf. The heavenly ones were laid out in a patch of sunlight near a window.

_Inner Workings_ looked in that direction, knowing it should return to its brothers but feeling surprisingly reluctant to do so. _An Historical Narrative_ seemed to be having similar feelings about the diabolical books under the bookshelf.

Then the heavenly book shifted a little closer to _An Historical Narrative_ and brushed its spine against that of the demonic volume. It started at the contact, and then oozed a pleasant, embarrassed smell of burning wood.

Then they turned together and shuffled off in a new direction, towards the unexplored areas in the back of their new home.

They kept the edges of their covers touching the whole way there.


End file.
